Confabulator Cafehttp://www.confabulatorcafe.com
A gathering place for writers of the amazing and strange, builders and shapers of worlds.Mon, 19 Feb 2018 12:00:17 +0000en-UShourly1https://wordpress.org/?v=4.9.342049103Psychic Callhttp://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/02/psychic-call/
http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/02/psychic-call/#respondMon, 19 Feb 2018 12:00:17 +0000http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/?p=10840Ann-Marie felt a disturbance in her psychic aura. A moment later, the phone rang. She let it ring through to voicemail as she waited for the electrical waves to clear so that she could continue her reading uninterrupted.

“I did warn you that now was not the best time for your reading,” the psychic told her patron. “I foresaw this disturbance.”

She cleared her throat, trying to regain the raspy voice she used when doing tarot readings. She turned over the next card, reading the meaning out to her rapt audience. It was the usual reading full of promises of small losses that opened the way for greater gains. She pocketed the girl’s tip after she left.

She checked her calendar, she had a quarter of an hour until her next appointment barring any unforeseen walk-ins. She dialed into her voicemail. “We need you again.” The line went dead.

Well that was vague. Who needed her? She could think back on any number of patrons who might require her services again. Except her patrons knew to leave a call-back number.

She hovered over the call back button. What if this was a test? A true psychic would at least know who called if not why.

She checked the ostentatious gilded clock hanging on the wall—thirteen minutes until her next appointment. She pulled out her cell phone and typed the phone number into her search bar, hoping that it would be a publicly recorded number.

No such luck.

She scrolled through the pages of advertisements offering to tell her the number for a small fee. Why spend ten dollars when she could go down to the pay phone at the corner station and call for a quarter? If she hurried she could be back by the time her appointment arrived. She scribbled a note and stuck it to the door. I sensed you would be early, but I was unexpectedly called away. I shall return in time for your appointment. Ann-Marie, Psychic

She locked the door behind her and hurried down the street. The phone rang and rang and rang without picking up. She slotted in another quarter and tried again. No answer.

She checked her watch and tried a final time. If they did not pick up, she would have time to make it back before the appointment time.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end was harsh and foreign.

“Hi, I’m looking for Susie, may I speak with her?” She forced every ounce of bubbly cheer to come through in her tone.

“Wrong number.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry to bother you. I must have copied the numbers down wrong. Who did I end up calling?”

There was a muffled thump and then someone else took the phone. “You don’t know who this is?”

Ann-Marie let out a nervous titter and shifted on her feet. “You’re not Susie, that’s for sure.”

“Calling from a pay phone. Oldest trick in the book. Fraud.” It was the voice from earlier.

She slammed the phone back into the cradle, looked at her watch and cursed. She was going to be late to her next appointment.

She ran all the way, plastic gems clattering against each other at every step. The person was going to be late and find her note predicting their early arrival. Everyone—not just the person on the phone—would know that she wasn’t a real psychic.

She slowed as she approached her practice. A woman sat on the stoop, the note in her hand.

“You’re the psychic?” The woman stood up, brushing invisible dirt off of her designer jeans. “How did you know I was going to be early?”

Ann-Marie pulled the trappings of her psychic persona about her and summoned a mysterious smile. “A psychic always knows. Now, shall we do your reading? I can tell you have the weight of many decisions weighing heavily upon you.”

]]>http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/02/psychic-call/feed/010840Responsibility of Bloodhttp://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/02/responsibility-of-blood/
http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/02/responsibility-of-blood/#respondMon, 12 Feb 2018 12:00:12 +0000http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/?p=10835Alicia fastened her seat belt and took deep breaths to calm herself as John, her newly wedded husband pulled out onto the highway pushed the speed limit. Instead of heading north to start hiking part of the Appalachian trail, the honeymoon as they’d planned for the past year, they drove south.

She closed her eyes and remembered what her mother had told her so many years ago, “It’s a blessing and a curse.”
Alicia was only nine at the time and didn’t understand. They were sitting together in the back of a police car, speeding to the local emergency room.

“Are you sick?” She asked her mother.

“No, dear,” was the response. She’d heard that before and wanted to believe it was true. She only remembered going with her mother a couple of times, but not since she was six or so, in the afternoon on a weekend, her dad was there then. But this time Dad was away, an engineer advising on a new bridge construction in Brazil. It was 2:00am, and no sitter was available, and it was an emergency. She’d awaken when the phone rang in the hallway. She’d listened as her mother spoke quickly, “Oh, of course … I’ll bring Alicia with me … fifteen minutes, we’ll be ready.”

Alicia wore her heavy coat over her pajamas. Her mother had quickly dressed in sweats.

“You might be able to get some sleep while you wait for me” her mother said as both watched out the window as they passed the emergency vehicles and glimpsed the mangled cars and the over turned semi. The hospital was less than twenty miles away.

The winter had been long and snowy and icy. Although her mom had regularly given blood, it turned out that the need was greater than usual, and tonight’s accident was serious, Lucy, the familiar nurse, explained after they arrived.
After her mom had gone quickly through the doors that said “authorized personnel only.” Lucy ushered Alicia into an empty office room, with a sofa, given a blanket and pillow and left to go back to sleep.

But she didn’t sleep.

Alicia cracked open the door and peered out. Listening she only caught fractions of sentences, or maybe people weren’t completing thoughts: “prepping now, two dead, boy, seven we think, mother stable in ICU, direct transfusion.”

Nurses, doctors, rushed about, and then it was quieter.

Alicia walked out to the desk where Lucy was stationed.

There were a few people sitting quietly in the waiting room. One had a bandage on his hand, another in a wheelchair nursing an injured foot, or ankle, not life threatening. Alicia realized they would have to wait for attention as long as she would be waiting for her mother.

Lucy looked up and smiled. “Your mom is a life saver. You must be proud of her.” Alicia nodded without really knowing what she thought about it. “You should probably try to rest – it might be a long night. Do you need anything?”

“A glass of water,” Alicia said, and then added, “please.”

“I’ll bring it too you, if you want to wait in the office. It’s much more comfortable than out here.” Alicia went back into the office and sat on the couch, crossed legged, and pulled the blanket around her.

Lucy brought Alicia a paper cup of water, and an ice-cream cup with a plastic spoon. Alicia smiled. Lucy sat with her a few minutes.

“Will everyone be okay?” Alicia asked as she put a spoon of ice cream in her mouth.

“I can’t really talk about our patients,” Lucy said, “some people were seriously hurt, but it would have been worse if your mom couldn’t come help.” Lucy stood up to leave.

“Can you leave the door open a little?” Alicia asked her. Lucy nodded.

“Oh, and thanks for the ice cream.”

That memory seemed a lifetime ago. But she still remembered the blue pajamas she was wearing that night, with the stars on them. She remembered thinking twinkle, twinkle little star, and making a wish that everyone would be okay.

That night after Alicia put the empty ice cream container in the trash bin and got comfortable on the sofa, wrapping the blanket around her, she remembered saying the Angel prayer, asking them to watch over her mother, and everyone else.

Alicia was pulled from her thoughts by her husband. “We’re making good time,” he said.

As he focused his concentration on the road and traffic Alicia slipped back into remembering.

For years after that emergency run, Alicia didn’t really think about the blood thing much. Her mom regularly gave blood. She thought all mothers did. “it’s for a very good cause,” her mother said, “my contribution, doing something that helps others?”

When Alicia started high school, during a routine physical before the start of fall soccer season, the nurse greeted her with unexpected warmth. “I know your mother. We’ve met before.” she said. And then in a strained casual way asked “Are you RH-null also? It’s not on your record.”

Alicia just shook her head and shrugged her shoulders as she recognized Lucy.

“Well, we should get that information filled in. In case of an emergency,” Lucy suggested.

RH-null? At fourteen Alicia didn’t like to let people know when she didn’t know something they seemed to think she should.

During American History, next period, she pulled out her laptop as her mind drifted from the discussion on the War of 1812 and typed the question: “what is RH null?”

She scanned quickly: “… rarest blood type is actually Rh-null … lack of antigens in the Rh system. Less than 1 in 1,000 people …

Alicia’s heart started to pound, and she glanced up quickly to mentally check in with her class for the moment and sensed no pressing need for attention. Back to her lap top, “… this type can donate blood to just about every blood type.”

Nurse Lucy’s question came back to her, “are you RH-null, also?” Alicia stared straight ahead with out seeing anything as, for the first time, she realized her mother’s contribution.

She mentally checked back into the classroom. A student was reading his rather dull essay on Andrew Jackson’s defeat of the British in New Orleans. Alicia, fingered the pages of her essay on the “era of good feeling” following the war and the demise of the Federalist party.

Feeling confident about her preparation, she looked back at the information on RH-null. “The blood type is inherited and has been known to run in families.”

It was only when her teacher asked “Alicia, are you okay?” that she realized she had her mouth wide open with a surprised stare. Shaken back to reality she stammered, “oh, it’s just all so interesting.” A classmate snickered,
“Perhaps your essay with be just as interesting.”

Alicia, closed her laptop, picked up her paper and stood. By the time she’d finished reading, the class was over. All afternoon the question nagged her. “Are you RH-null, also?”

She didn’t have time to continue her research until later that evening.

What she read next was even more startling. There were maybe only ten persons with this rare blood type in the active donor pool for this rare and important life-saving blood. And that it was almost impossible for people to have it without a family history of the blood type. Why hadn’t it been explained to her that children can inherit the rare condition from their parents or other direct relatives. And a person could be AB and RH- null at the same time … but AB wasn’t a universal donor type. The information she found was detailed and confusing.

Was she also RH-null?

So, she asked her parents that weekend when she knew they would make time to talk to her.

Then, the stories came out. The tragedies of miscarriages, the miracle of being able to help save someone’s life. There were so many new treatments – ways to insure healthy babies.

“You’re not required to give blood, there is no pressure,” her mother said.

“That will always be your choice, honey,” her father said. “When you are older.”

She understood, and she tabled the information. Filed it away in her memory.

***

Alicia noticed that the traffic had picked up. They were getting closer to the turnoff for the hospital. She put her hand on her husband’s thigh and they smiled at each other when he glanced over at her. As he continued to focus, both hands on the wheel, her mind drifted back again.

Life was fun, and interesting and exciting. She enjoyed high school and college was better.

Her sophomore year in a small liberal arts college, in a picturesque upstate small town, was as close to perfect as she thought she would ever experience. She was spending a lot of time with John. He was a tech genius, even his professors thought so.

“I’m not just a geeky nerd,” he laughed when they met for a study lunch after the party where they’d been introduced by a mutual friend. “I’m on the track team.”

Turns out he still held his high school record for the 100 yard dash. He made her promise not to tell anyone. He actually blushed when he made this request.

That spring she spent lovely afternoons multi-tasking – delving into her calculus assignments and other pre- engineering courses while keeping an eye open for John’s events. She like his track friends. She was in love.

And then one very rainy evening, when she was working on a major assignment that had to be emailed in by midnight, there was a scream in her residence hall, followed by loud voices. Alicia walked out of her room to see what the excitement was about.

She ran down the hall with her dorm mates to the television lounge. The local breaking new report had people on the scene. Emergency vehicles were gathering. They appealed for blood donors. Supplies were dangerously low.
Alicia felt faint. She scanned the screen for John. She could hardly breathe.

She ran back to her room, she grabbed her coat, purse, phone and left without saving her assignment on the computer.

She had to park a distance away from the emergency room entrance. So much activity, She felt panic, while all around she observed the competence of people doing their best.

She paused to watch gurneys being gently lifted out of ambulances – the injured already attached to plasma bags. She thought she recognized one of John’s team mates.

She slipped inside the first opportunity she had and looked for someone to tell.

The triage nurse supervisor, or so she appeared to be, caught her eye. In response to the hard look of “I’m busy, what do you want?” Alicia went to her quickly “I’m RH-null.”

The nurse stared at her for a non-blinking moment and asked if she was a registered donor?

“Not, yet, but I will help if I can.”

It was a long night. Word got out that Alicia was in the hospital and John, who had luckily sustained only superficial injuries was waiting for her when she was wheeled out of the emergency room. Exhausted from the ordeal of the direct transfusion, she opened her eyes when she heard his voice.

She missed the midnight deadline to submit the assignment she’d been working on. Her father told her not to worry. She could make it up. Her mother told her she was proud of her. They cried together.

It became the new normal. She had a standing appointment to give blood. It was so routine that she hardly thought about it. She always felt happy afterward, maybe the chocolate malt she treated herself to after each session was the trigger.

One Sunday morning during her senior year she was sleeping in while John hummed about the kitchen, preparing pecan pancakes and mimosas. In addition to being a tech geek and a track star, John knew his way around the kitchen, well, on weekends. He could make pancakes and scrambled eggs. And that was fine with Alicia.

The television was on the local channel, John was waiting for the weather report – they were planning a bike ride later that day. As he poured a cup of freshly brewed coffee his attention was drawn to a breaking news story. Earlier that morning, there’d been a head-on collision, next town over, a family of five and a car with three teens.

John walked to the bedroom as Alicia’s cell phone rang. She rubbed her eyes and yawned. The phone identified the caller as St. Luke’s. She answered the call on speaker mode. “Yes.”

The voice on the other end said, “Alicia, we need you again.”

“Sure,” Alicia responded as she looked in John’s eyes. The call disconnected.

John handed the fresh cup of coffee to Alicia as she sat up in bed. “I’ll drive you.”

“I’m sorry” Alicia began.

“Don’t be,” he said.

***

John drove as close to the emergency entrance as he could.

They kissed, and John told her, “I’ll park and be right in. If I don’t see you, you’ll know where I am.

Alicia said, “I love you,” and got out of the car rushing to the entrance.

John watched with admiration as she disappeared inside.

]]>http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/02/responsibility-of-blood/feed/010835Microbe Mikehttp://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/02/microbe-mike/
http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/02/microbe-mike/#commentsMon, 05 Feb 2018 12:00:56 +0000http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/?p=10829It was 2 am when I picked up the ringing phone. “We need you again,” said the voice on the other end. They needed me all the time.

I got up from my warm hospital bed, pulled on yesterdays’ scrubs (they weren’t too bad yet), and shuffled down the quarantined half of the hallway.

Across the plastic sheet that divides the healthy from the sick and/or exposed, I see doctors decked out in biohazard suits conferring with nurses in biohazard suits. Too scared to leave their plastic wrappers. The vestibule kitchens on their side are empty and their coffee makers dry and cold. Everyone’s face is completely obscured behind a domed helmet with reflective visors.

On my side? Coffee brewed and full pastry platters sat atop the counters. No masks on this side, so you could see the expressions on people’s faces. Fear, yes. Of course. There’s been fear on everyone’s face since the bio satellite crashed into the bay nine months ago (NASA was experimenting with some vicious little bugs in the vacuum of space where it was supposedly safe. Oops.). But people laugh too, even on this side of the plastic. Life goes on.

I turned the corner to INTAKE. New infection case. Through another sheet of plastic I see an elderly lady sitting alone on a bed. Her skin is greying and sloughing off. Only about half of the young and strong survive a biosat illness, so her chances aren’t good

But I wanted to make sure the first face she sees (that’s not covered by a reflective helmet visor) doesn’t look too worried. I make myself smile. I’m a baby-faced guy and I have found that I remind every old lady of her grandson.

“Well hi, Mrs. Potter!” I said cheerfully. She looked up, shocked. My face was probably the first she’d seen without a domed helmet.

“You’ll catch it!” she said.

“Oh don’t worry about me. I’m Microbe Mike and I can’t even catch a cold.” I started placing her IV. With my one pair of latex gloves, I was so much more dexterous than the healthy doctors and nurses with their two pairs covered by a third, thick rubber glove. No multiple missed needle jabs from me. Just normal, good nursing care.

“Is that so?” Mrs. Potter looked amazed.

“It’s so,” I said, and then asked her all the typical intake questions while taking her pulse—the old fashioned way with fingers and a stethoscope.

It was true, though. As near as Doctor Sousa and the quarantine team could figure, I was immune to all the biosat viruses. In the early days of the biosat infections, I caught three different diseases from our patients at the same time.

Dr. Sousa got me through by spending all day on only me. And it took all day to place my IV catheters with her thick, rubber gloves. It took all her attention to administer drugs in perfect synchrony to fight the viral symptoms and keep my vitals into safe ranges while my immune system fought the viruses. Sousa said she wanted me better so her other nurses didn’t think they could catch a break by dying.

But it was frightening. The pain was intense and I felt alone, despite Dr. Sousa’s constant ministrations. I kept telling her I only wanted to see someone’s eye again before I died. I could only see my own (very sick) face in her reflective visor. She told me there was no way in Hell she was removing even one piece of the suit. I told her that was fair.

Dr. Sousa was one of only a handful of health workers who was willing to cross the plastic. I had to respect that. But it wasn’t really fair. My IVs were sloppy. I was lying in my own filth. And I wasn’t the only one. Before I’d gotten sick, I cared for a 9 year old boy safe behind my biohazard suit. His parents were forced behind the plastic by the new quarantine laws. I held his hand when he died, but I held it through three gloves made of various synthetic polymers.

So after I recovered, I went back into quarantine. Against Dr. Sousa’s orders, I took the gloves off. Against executive orders flown in by drone from Washington DC, I took the helmet off and cared for patients like I used to. There were dying people and I was a nurse. And that was that. But I never got sick.

And so Microbe Mike was born. The CDC took samples of my blood to try and create a biosat vaccine serum. Pretty cool. Not exactly a superhero story. It was mostly hand-holding , catheter replacing, and pulse taking. But I felt like I was making a difference on this side of the plastic.

After finishing up with Mrs. Potter, I reported to suited-up Sousa. When she saw me through the plastic, she waved me over to one of the speakers installed between the healthy half and the quarantined half of the hallway. Even on the other side of the plastic she’s wearing a full biohazard suit. Oh well. Nobody’s perfect.

“Mrs. Potter will likely die in the next 72 hours,” she said.

All sunshine, that one. Actually, Dr. Sousa’s first name is Solana, which means ‘sunny.’ I told her at one point during my fevered illness that her name should have been Lluviosa or Nublada (rainy or cloudy). She said both ‘names’ were inaccurate translations, she found neither verisimilitude nor levity in either, and my various fevers were obviously affecting my cognitive functioning.

“She could pull through,” I said. “She seems very spry.”

Sousa shook her head. “Her case is advanced and she’s over 90 years old. It’s wise to focus our efforts elsewhere…while still providing the highest level of comfort, of course.” She’d added that last bit in haste. She must have seen my face.

After my brief and depressing conference with Sousa, I headed back down the INTAKE hall toward the cafeteria to get a bite for breakfast. I didn’t take the normal route there because I didn’t want to walk past poor Mrs. Potter’s room again just yet. I needed something in my belly first.

On my roundabout way down to breakfast, I passed one of the supply closets. I wouldn’t normally notice except the door was open and a patient was lying in a bed inside attached to monitors and an IV. Strange. And stranger still, the door was draped in an extra plastic curtain and a spritzer automatically emitted a fine chlorine mist down the curtain.

I pushed back the plastic and stepped into the room. A young teenage girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, lay in the bed. She was asleep and murmuring fretfully. I put my hand on her forehead and she quieted. She was burning up.

Something primal from my brainstem screamed at me and I wanted out of the room. To show my lizard brain who was boss, I stayed a few more minutes, checking vitals—they weren’t good. I gave her hand a squeeze, but I got no response. My amygdala was still flipping out. I hadn’t let it beat me immediately, I guess. That was enough right? So I left.

I sanitized with a chlorine wipe. I didn’t usually go for the big chemical guns; it was soap and hot water for me. Maybe some hand sanitizer if I was in a rush. But something felt wrong in that poor kid’s room. I changed scrubs and washed again. Only then did I go grab a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit from the quarantine dining room.

After breakfast, I headed back to Sousa.

“Why didn’t you call me about the girl in the supply closet?” I ask. I try to ask with some nonchalance.

“Did you go in there? Why did you go into that part of the building?”

“Um, the food court was near it?”

“There are more direct routes to the food court from you quarters. Why did you take that route?”

“Um, anyway I did. And I went in there. Why didn’t you tell me we had another case?”

“Mike, her case is different.” Sousa looked uncomfortable. “It’s not viral. You’re immune to all the viruses, but it seems there were accidental bacteria aboard the biosat too.”

“Accidental bacteria?”

“Yes. Staph and such. They can hitch rides into space and survive there. After a while only the strongest, most stress-tolerant bacteria are left. And Mike, you cannot be immune to a bacterial infection.”

“Right. You can keep catching strep throat over and over.”

Sousa nodded and took my arm in her rubber-gloved hands. She ushered me down a hallway past the girl in the closet and into a single-occupancy, unisex bathroom. Only it was set up like the teenager’s room, complete with a hospital bed and beeping machines. She prepped me. PICC line IV, antibiotics in the port, all the monitors.

“We’re going to get on top of this,” she said, giving me post-exposure prophylactic drugs. Probably broad-spectrum antimicrobials. I would be hydrated, refreshed, and downright poisonous to germs by the time the bacteria start hitting my cells. An inhospitable environment.

“It would have been good to know about that girl, you know?” I said. “A ‘Heads-up Mike, you should probably stay out of this room’ would have been helpful.”

“Would you have stayed out?” Sousa asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I know. You would have ended up here as soon as you found her. Because you’re stupid. Here.” She injected something into my IV catheter. “You’ll need your sleep.” And the world went dark.

The next time I opened my eyes, I felt horrible. Everything hurt at a deep, cellular level. And I was indescribably tired. I watched Solana scribbling sloppy notes on my chart with her big gloved hands. She was always in the biosat patient rooms in person. Suited up, yes, but still there.

“How am I doing?” I asked. My question startled her from her scribbling. She looked concerned and it took her a long moment to regain her normal impassive look.

“You could pull through,” she said. “You seem very spry.”

I remembered our conversation about Mrs. Potter.

“Is that you being funny?”

She looked down at her hands and hesitated. She slowly pulled off one of her big rubber gloves. Then, decisively, she removed both pairs of latex gloves and laid them on the sink by my bed.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

She said nothing, but took my hand. Her touch felt warm and the warmth spread through my body, easing the cellular ache. It felt like sunshine.

]]>http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/02/microbe-mike/feed/210829February Stories at the Confabulator Cafehttp://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/02/february-stories-confabulator-cafe-2/
http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/02/february-stories-confabulator-cafe-2/#respondThu, 01 Feb 2018 12:00:47 +0000http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/?p=10842Welcome back, reader. We hope your 2018 has been wonderful so far and that our stories may have the smallest something to do with that.

This month, the Confabulators wrote to a prompt about a phone call: The phone rings. The voice on the other end says, “We need you again,” then hangs up.

We hope you enjoy the tales spun for this prompt. Also, please give a warm welcome to our new guest author Lea Orth! Her debut story will go live on Monday, February 12.

]]>http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/02/february-stories-confabulator-cafe-2/feed/010842The Magehttp://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/01/the-mage/
http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/01/the-mage/#respondMon, 29 Jan 2018 12:00:25 +0000http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/?p=10815Though I knew I had to steal the key, my conscience still smote me brutally. It wasn’t like it had been my idea after all. The hall was black-dark, but it wasn’t hard to flick open the lock on the tiny box and remove its contents. I could feel everything through my thin gloves, black as the shadows, as if they were a second skin.

The lock snicked shut as I closed the metal box. Ghosting over dark velvet floors, the massive ornate door in view, I was already triumphant. I would get my pay, and he would get his key. The authorities wouldn’t find who’d stolen it; they never did when I was involved.

“Going somewhere?” The chuckle froze me by the door. Light spilled from a slit in the hall panels, an emerald eye peering through it. I stared back through the dark mask across my face. I held my breath, waiting to see what she would do. Not that she knew anything was missing. Yet.

The mahogany panel slipped further open, light spreading toward me but stopping just short. “You do know you aren’t the first.” Her wrinkled lips pursed, eyes narrowing. “But I think I’ll give you a chance.” She stepped back. “Come in! Show me you can use that key and I’ll let you keep it.”

I stayed motionless, mistrustful of her offer. Besides, it wasn’t my key; I didn’t want it, I didn’t particularly want to steal it. “I was hired to take it, not use it,” I said, the words spilling out against my better judgment.

“Perhaps you’d like to change allegiances then.” She grinned. “You’re the best that’s ever tried! I almost missed catching you. And I assure you, I pay much better.”

I wavered, unconvinced, but she hadn’t called for help or tried yet to stop me. Cautiously I approached, shadows unfurling behind me as the revealing light swirled before my boots.

She sank into a curving armchair, and I saw she was clothed in a riot of colors bright as her eyes. I stopped by the door, and we watched each other until she flicked a hand. “Go on, girl.” Slowly I uncurled my fingers, glancing at the slender key made of irregular wooden chunks fashioned together. Except…it was a puzzle, not a key.

Guessing it was supposed to open some way, I began shifting the pieces. Bit by bit they came apart until the last cluster fell open. Inky smoke spilled from them, unfurling into dark shimmering scales, an angular head, and slender body. I recoiled in shock as a sleek wolf-sized dragon gazed up at me.

“Ha! You thought he’d hire you to take a simple key?” the mage laughed.

“But—How—”

“That is magic, my dear. Never ask of magic ‘how.’” She waved airily. “Don’t worry, that dragon won’t hurt you. She’s yours remember!” I looked from the dragon, tail neatly wound around her feet, to the woman. She chuckled again. “I told you I pay better.”

]]>http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/01/the-mage/feed/010815Intergalactic Clown Thiefhttp://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/01/intergalactic-clown-thief/
http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/01/intergalactic-clown-thief/#respondMon, 22 Jan 2018 12:00:18 +0000http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/?p=10825I realized that I had made a terrible mistake. Well, maybe more than one, if I was being completely honest with myself. I never should have agreed to the parameters of the heist job in the first place. Dress up as a clown, they said. It’ll be an easy score, they said. Well, they can kiss my ass. I hate clowns, for one. Dressing up as one was hell. The face paint felt like shower grout and the wig itched worse than lice.

All that aside, being dressed up as a clown put a giant target on my back for every little kid within a thousand miles. Do kids have clown sonar, or something? Two even followed me to the bathroom when I went to shuck my disguise and crawl through the vents to get to the heavily guarded room with all the jewels.

“I hid a bag of candy back at the party. Look for something red, and you’ll find it.” That made them leave me alone, thankfully. And no, I didn’t feel bad, lying to kids. Not when I was about to rob the damn place.

Ok. Maybe I felt a little bad. I decided to buy them a whole candy store once I robbed the place blind and fenced all the goods.

Once I ditched the clown costume, I thought it’d be smooth sailing. But the face paint wouldn’t come off and the air vent was a tight fit. What else could possibly go wrong?

“This is the emergency alert system. This estate is now on lock down.”

What the hell? I hadn’t even stolen anything yet!

“The planet Earth is under attack. Alien warships have been spotted approaching at full speed. Please proceed to the underground bomb shelter immediately. This is not a drill.”

I thunked my head on the bottom of the vent, leaving a smudge of clown makeup, as the message repeated itself. Now what? How had my life come to this? With a sigh, I scooted backward out of the vent. I never would have made it three rooms over, anyway. My ass apparently wasn’t built for air vent navigation.

Back in the bathroom, I eyed the clown costume distastefully. I wasn’t sure what choice I had. I may be recognizable as a clown, but I’d be a lot less suspicious. With a disgusted sigh, I became a clown again.

The emergency alert system let me know that the attack was imminent. I followed the running lights that led to the shelter and stood at the top of the stairs. I could go down the stairs, hide out with the gathered families, and eventually they’d discover what had happened to the real clown: an intergalactic sneak thief had stolen his costume and taken his place.

Or I could try my luck with the aliens.

I didn’t see either scenario ending particularly well for me, but the idea of being trapped like a rat in a clown suit seemed like the greater of the two hells I could imagine.

I turned on my heel and left the creepy stairs and the bunker full of kids behind me.

As I made my way through the mansion, I found the room I’d planned to rob completely unguarded. I looked up and down the hallway. Not a soul. Too bad about the cameras. Except that I was still dressed as the clown. I shrugged. What the hell.

I turned the handle of the room. Locked, of course. I slipped the EMP device from my tool kit and activated it. The door clicked open. As an added bonus, the emergency alert system shut down, too. Blissful silence.

I made quick work of the room. Jewels, credit chips, gold, and the diamond bracelet I’d gone in for. I held it up to the light. Beautiful. It had been my mother’s, once upon a time. I’d spent decades tracking it down. And hey, I’d only admit it while drinking, but it might have had an influence on my career choice of thief.

At any rate, at least if aliens killed us all now, I’d have had it in my possession for at least a few minutes.

I made my way through the mansion and took the most direct route outside: through the front door. When I stepped out onto the lawn, I stopped short. An alien warship was settling onto the grass.

I sighed. Great. I was going to die wearing a clown suit. I put my hands in the air in surrender.

“We come in peace! We’ve been looking for you, Lord Ronald. Your empire is well-known across the galaxy.”

I frowned. Did they think I was Ronald McDonald? I could work with that. It probably wouldn’t end well, but hey, I could keep wearing the clown suit if it kept me alive for awhile longer. It could even be a fresh start. Intergalactic clown thief didn’t have a terrible ring to it.

“Very well, then. Take me to your leader,” I said.

]]>http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/01/intergalactic-clown-thief/feed/010825The Time of Boxeshttp://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/01/the-time-of-boxes/
http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/01/the-time-of-boxes/#respondMon, 15 Jan 2018 12:00:05 +0000http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/?p=10808Hirald had to knock on the door. It was a big door, wooden, with a brass knocker high above his head and one cement step up to it. He’d never knocked on the door before, not in his whole life. He didn’t know anyone else who ever had, either. It was strictly forbidden for box gnomes.

The cardboard boxes were piled on the curb behind him for the picking, some with bits of colorful wrapping still attached. It was the time for the Feast of Boxes. The heavy layer of snow would destroy them before the trash truck did, but for now they made Hirald a happy gnome. He was less happy to be standing in front of the door, though. The door scared him. He gathered his courage and knocked, far below the door knocker which he couldn’t hope to reach. The door required a short wait before a woman opened it.

“Who is it?” a voice called from down the hallway of the house. It was a deep, gruff voice that Hirald didn’t like.

“A gnome,” the woman called back.

“Garden or box gnome?”

“Box.”

“Ugh. Get rid of it,” the voice demanded.

The boxes were still there behind him. He could drop the thing and run, probably make it back to the curb before he took a kick to the head. His heart hammered as he unclenched his fist, holding up the shiny he’d found.

The woman bent her knees and put her hands on her thighs to look down at him. She didn’t kick him at all.

“I- I found this. In the trash,” he explained.

The shiny flickered in the light and cast sparkles across her face. Hirald risked a smile, mirroring the small grin on her face.

“I thought I’d lost it for good,” she said, taking the diamond ring from his hand. Her soft fingertips brushed his calloused palm and he almost jerked his hand back in surprise.

He let out a breath as the weight of it lifted from his hand.

“I thought box gnomes stole everything they could from the trash?” she asked, checking the ring over.

He wanted to run for the boxes. He didn’t like being exposed like this. But it seemed rude not to answer when she hadn’t done anything to him yet. “Only trash. This wasn’t trash,” he said.

The sound of heavy shoes made him look up and he saw the man coming down the hallway. He was a big man and he looked angry. “I told you to get rid of it,” he said, pushing up his sleeves to do the job for her.

Hirald’s view was blocked when the woman stood between the gnome and the man. “You won’t touch him,” she said. As Hirald watched she straightened up to be two inches taller. “And you won’t touch me either.”

She clenched the ring in her fist and lifted her chin, daring him to hit her. Hirald stepped back off the step. He wished he could pull her back with him, but he was just a little gnome.

“I’m leaving you, Rick,” she said.

“I told you already, if you go you won’t take anything from this house. How are you going to live without my money?”

She stepped out onto the stoop with Hirald and he scrambled to make room for her. The man followed as she tried to slam the door on him.

“Don’t you dare,” he said. But she was halfway to the street already.

He saw Hirald on the sidewalk. The boxes were too far and he didn’t dare step into the grass of the garden gnomes’ realm.

“What the fuck are you doing here, you little trash gnome?” the man said, giving Hirald a swift kick.

His breath came out in a swift ‘umph’ as Hirald sprawled in the grass, big feet stuck up in the air.

“Get away from him,” the woman shouted out. Hirald gasped for breath as she pushed her husband away from his little gnome body.

She pulled Hirald up off the ground, away from any garden gnomes who might be lurking. He managed to get a breath in to stop his lungs from panicking.

“It looks like we should both find a new place to sleep tonight,” she said as she brushed his clothes off.

He’d never been picked up like this before. He kicked his feet, wanting to be on the ground but not entirely uncomfortable in her arms, either.

“Do you know what this is?” she asked Hirald, still holding the ring in her fist.

He nodded. It was an engagement ring. Every silly gnome knew that much about human customs.

“This is our freedom. I was afraid I’d lost it when I threw it in the trash. But I can sell this and live for a year if I’m careful.”

Hirald looked to his boxes one last time. The feast was waiting. He hoped there would be plenty of boxes wherever this woman was going as he followed her down the sidewalk.

]]>http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/01/the-time-of-boxes/feed/010808Leaving the Nesthttp://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/01/leaving-the-nest/
http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/01/leaving-the-nest/#respondMon, 08 Jan 2018 12:00:17 +0000http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/?p=10803Every nerve tingled down her spine, sending her tail swishing back and forth in uncontrollable excitement. This was the day she’d spent the past months preparing for.

“She’s carrying a mirrored decorative pot. It’s enormous and looks incredibly fragile, I’m amazed it’s survived so far.” Her father’s human relayed the details of the girl climbing up the side of the mountain. He’d first spied her at the base of the mountain a few days earlier and had been reporting back on her painstakingly slow progression up the mountain.

The mirrored pot was one of Iris’s favorite pieces she’d collected for her treasure garden. When she started cultivating her treasure garden years ago, her father warned her away from anything that would be difficult to carry, but when she’d first set eyes on that pot, she knew that it was destined to be hers. It would be devastating if her human shattered or lost it, almost as bad as if it stayed in the garden forever. It was fitting that it would be the first piece of her hoard.

This was her first human. This object would be the first piece that she would use to start her own hoard… or if she failed, the human would be the first piece of her hoard.

Iris lashed her tail, hoping her father’s human would let her know how much longer it would be until her new human was here. The man took a hasty step back, clearing space between them just in time for her father to blow hot steam into her face. She gave one last twitch of her tail in irritation at being treated like a kit and then flopped to her belly, laying her head on her claws with a huff.

“I believe she will arrive within the day. I will prepare a meal for her arrival.” The human bowed slightly to Iris’s father then flicked her on the nose before leaving.

My first human, Iris squeaked at her father, thrumming with excitement.

I will miss having you underfoot, scamp. Her father’s voice was a low rumble that reverberated through the floor of the cavern.

Iris drooped for a moment. As exciting as it was to be able to leave and start her own life, her own hoard, she had never been away from her father’s nest for more than a few days. She wormed up to her father’s side and nestled under his wing. You could always visit.

Perhaps. He nudged her with his nose. Look alive, I feel your human’s presence fast approaching. He closed his eyes and relaxed into his hoard, pretending to sleep. She would be responsible for greeting the human on her own.

“Hello?” The tentative greeting echoed through the cavern. Iris squeaked out a return greeting, laying eyes on the girl and her mirrored pot. She felt herself tense up, she wanted to pounce on them and give them a proper welcome, but she squashed the urge. “Um,” the girl was clearly having difficulty deciding which dragon to address. “I think this is yours?”

Iris crept forward, staying in a low crouch to try and appear as small and non-threatening as possible. She swiftly extended a foreleg to accept the returned pot. The woman shrieked and dove away, dropping it. Iris lunged forward. The pot crashed to the ground, shattering into tiny, mirrored shards.

Daaaaaaad! Iris screeched at her father who was still pretending to slumber. She broke my treasure.

He opened an eye taking in the scene before him. Did you touch it?

No, it was pretty and I wanted it and she broke it.

Then she did not fulfill her quest and has not been released. Congratulations, scamp, you have your first human.

Her father’s human came running in, summoned by the commotion, took one look at the scene and sighed. “Children.” Her father’s soft rumbling laugh filled the room. The human turned to the girl and held out a hand. “Come, I’ll explain what you can expect over dinner.”

]]>http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/01/leaving-the-nest/feed/010803January Stories at the Confabulator Cafehttp://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/01/january-stories-confabulator-cafe-2/
http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/01/january-stories-confabulator-cafe-2/#respondMon, 01 Jan 2018 12:00:01 +0000http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/?p=10799Greetings, readers! Welcome back to another year of free fiction at the Confabulator Cafe! We have an exciting year lined up for you. We’re even going to give you a little teaser by sharing the monthly prompts for the whole year on the Fiction Archive page. So take a look and make note of months you think might tickle your fancy.

As for January stories, what better way to start the new year than have our writers tell you stories about new beginnings? But, because this is the Cafe, we can never just leave it at that. For this prompt, we also wanted a twist or a catch with that new beginning.

We hope you’ll enjoy our stories this month, and this year!

Here’s the January schedule:

Monday, January 8: “Leaving the Nest” by Eliza Jaquays
Monday, January 15: “The Time of Boxes” by Dianne Williams
Monday, January 22: “Intergalactic Clown Thief” by Sara Lundberg
Monday, January 29: “The Mage” by Isabel Nee

]]>http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2018/01/january-stories-confabulator-cafe-2/feed/010799Prison of the Mindhttp://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2017/12/prison-of-the-mind/
http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/2017/12/prison-of-the-mind/#respondSat, 30 Dec 2017 12:00:47 +0000http://www.confabulatorcafe.com/?p=10782 I remember being set free dozens of times. I’ve run, limped, and crawled out of this cell every day for weeks. Sometimes alone and sometimes leading others to safety. In victory and defeat. None of it is real.

I’m in a recovery room, surrounded by doctors, by family and friends. All of them ask questions. They ask questions about me, but mostly they ask questions about what I know. About what the aliens wanted from me so desperately. They ask what the aliens asked and I refuse to answer. It’s a trap, of course. If I ignore the people long enough my captors will get bored and prep the next scenario.

Their hallucinations are getting better, less nonsensical. Once, I could tell reality from fiction by the gaps in time. When I couldn’t remember leaving my cell, or walking into the room, when I couldn’t remember how I’d escaped or been set free, then I could jar my mind out of the illusion. Then I could remember not to give anything away. But this scenario, this is a good one, a happy one, and I don’t wish to endure it any longer.

I look for the seams in this reality.

A woman who looks just like my mother sits beside me. The doctors told her to be careful with me. Not to touch me because I might startle or break down. But she can’t seem to stop herself and she takes my hand anyway. She strokes my arm and I try not to look at her. Have those lines around her eyes always been there or have the aliens added them this time to make it seem like time has passed? I can’t remember.

If I look at her then I’ll be tempted to engage. Just one comment, just a little taste of my life before, and I could let go and believe that I’m safe. I could let go of everything. She’s too dangerous.

I turn my attention to scrutinize my surroundings. They’re better now at filling in the holes in my memory. I’ve never seen this batch of doctors before or the ugly couch I’m sitting on. They used to rely on stock footage from my memories – newscasters I saw once or furniture from a doctor’s office – but these are newly created places and characters. I can pick fibers out of the frayed corners and they feel like real fibers. They’ve had too much practice in my mind.

A man sits down across from me. I recognize his face, though it looks tanner and healthier than I remember. But the eyes, the dark circles and the heavy lids. The way his gaze moves about the room looking for details that others miss. The aliens haven’t erased those.

“It’s John. He was a cell mate of yours,” the woman who looks like my mother says to me. She turns to him and adds, “I wish you could get her to talk about it. She won’t say anything to us.”

My eyes are tired of being forced to focus elsewhere. I look at him more out of reflex than interest. And immediately I regret it. The wall cracks. He is watching my eyes, watching the way I grimace when our eyes meet. I look away again but not before I see him nod.

“Johnny Boy,” I say. “I knew that you were never real. All those conversations back in that cell. Just another alien trick.”

“No, it wasn’t a trick. I’m real,” he says.

“No one is real anymore,” I say. “There are only the aliens and the questions. That’s what you said to me once. Don’t you bastards remember your own scenarios?”

“Yes, I said that to you. I said it to myself over and over again every time I went into that damn machine. And we both needed the mantra, then, the same way that we needed the memory tricks and the walls. I know you can’t believe this, but we won. The rebellion won. You don’t need the mantra anymore,” he says.

I shake my head and return to my search of the room. There’s something just at the corner of my eye, something important. If I can just figure it out. Maybe it’s just the tears blurring my vision but I have to find proof that this is an illusion soon. Before I start to believe in it. If the walls crumble, lives are at stake.

“There’s nothing I can say to convince you, is there?” John asks.

I lean forward, feeling the clean fabric of my hospital gown. I don’t know how my brain even remembers what clean fabric feels like. I look that alien bastard right in the eye. “I swore an oath never to reveal a word of what I know to the enemy. There is nothing you can do to break that oath.”

He stands to go and I let myself fall back into a slump. Scenarios with my family always sap my energy. I just have to hold out a little longer. Eventually the aliens will give up on this attempt and I’ll be free for a few hours back in my cell. Just a little longer.

“I’m sorry. She’s been like this since, you know,” my mother says.

“I understand. She’s a hero whether she knows it or not. She never cracked, not once, and she was there longer than any of us. In her mind, she’s still there. She won’t rest, won’t engage, won’t ever let her guard down one bit until she’s back in that cell,” he says.

My mother squeezes my hand and I want to return that gesture so badly. But there are only the aliens and the questions here. I just have to keep it up until they give in and this all goes away. And then I’ll be free again.